


My Love Wears Fire in His Hair

by LadyNimrodel



Series: Lost but not Gone [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Domestic, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo wears fireflies in his hair and Thorin cannot look away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Love Wears Fire in His Hair

**Author's Note:**

> I had an image of Bilbo wearing fireflies in his hair for weeks and this is the result. This is part of a much longer story I have yet to start which is a hell of a lot more complicated and sad. This can stand alone, though, until I begin the main story.

Bilbo wears a crown of fireflies. 

In the field where he stands, little lights flicker and gleam in his hair, shining like a circlet made from little chips of sunlight. Not stars. Though the evening is dark, the sky a deep navy blue, the fireflies do not resemble the stars that stud it in any way. And that is appropriate, since a hobbit is a creature of sunlight. It seems fitting that he should only be crowned with light and warmth. 

Thorin breathes in the cool night air and watches. 

Watching Bilbo is a favored pastime now. Peace is a hard earned thing and his life even more so. He thinks, after winning back a kingdom from a great evil and nearly dying for it, he should be allowed to have this. This, being the warmth of a mid-summer’s night. This, the rough bark of a big oak tree at his back. This, grass tickling his bare feet and flowers bobbing against his ankles. This, his hobbit standing in the grass and collecting fireflies in his honey brown curls. 

An emotion burns like forge fire in his chest, one he has no name for. It is too strong for a name. It fills him to the very top, brighter than all the fireflies in the world, bigger than the mountain he left behind. Greater than the years of his grief . 

It is not love. 

But love has a lot to do with it. 

Just then, Bilbo turns, scattering light and the scent of crushed grass. Even in the dark, Thorin can see his bight smile. 

“I think it’s going to storm later,” Bilbo calls but there is laughter in his voice. He’s right, there is the smell of rain in the air, humid enough that Thorin’s hair curls a little tighter than normal. It’s a good smell, though it is different here in the Shire than he remembers it being while living in the mountains. There it was a harder smell, full of the promise of wet stone. Here, though, it is sweet, like honey and grass. Thorin likes it better. He does not miss the smell of stone. 

“Aye, it may,” he says quietly, curling his toes into the long grass. After a few years, he’s found he doesn’t need boots in the Shire. He wonders if someday he’ll look more hobbit than dwarf and with another glance at Bilbo, decides that if so, it’s not such a bad thing. Breeze like a sigh flutters over the field, making the leaves above his head rustle gently and, yes, there is a storm coming indeed. He hopes the rain will last. Rainy days in the Shire he loves as much as sunny ones because that means warm fires, a comfortable armchair and watching Bilbo’s face while he reads. 

“You’re quiet tonight, Thorin,” Bilbo is closer now, still crowned in golden bugs and his eyes gleaming in their light. Thorin tips his head back against the tree and smiles at him. It has taken a long time to find his smile again but the motion of it has become familiar. 

“I had a letter from Dwalin this afternoon. He and Balin are coming for a visit at the end of the month,” he doesn’t say that the letter made him think of Erebor and the grief and sickness he left behind there. Gold sickness that still makes him bow his head in shame and the battle he could have changed the outcome of if he had not been blinded by greed. The battle for a mountain that he gave away. A battle that took more from him than he was prepared to give. He doesn’t need to say it. Bilbo remembers as well as he and they don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about it because the missing and the grief becomes more important than breathing and he spent too long not breathing. If they talk about it then he remembers the stone graves, one for Fili and one for Kili. Side by side, carved in stone, left behind in darkness. Or maybe they were the ones that went ahead. 

Bilbo’s face has lit up with the news about visitors, “I’m glad for notice this time!” he says, and though he pretends to be annoyed, the warmth in his voice gives him away, “Last time, they just showed up with the others and I hadn’t even been shopping yet!” Thorin laughs. 

“Yes, I remember. I was the one who had to go out to market and remedy the oversight. Those groceries were very heavy,” he teases and gets a snort in return. The force of it sends a few of the fireflies fluttering away like tiny comets but they return to perch in Bilbo’s curls quickly enough. 

“And if I remember correctly, it was your oversight. You forgot to tell me when their letter arrived. That whole debacle could have been avoided completely if you had just—”

“Bilbo,” he says, voice still soft. But it is enough to bring an end to the growing tirade. Bilbo is smiling when he plants his fists on his hips.

“What?” light catches on his cheekbones and against the ridges of his curls and the overwhelming monster in Thorin’s chest grows ever bigger. He smiles gently and holds out his hand.

“Come here,” and Bilbo does, trailing fireflies and a laugh that Thorin is quick to lick out of his smiling mouth. Heavy warmth settles over his legs, lovely plump thighs at his hips that he will make sure to bite and mark later, and a round bottom fitting nicely in his palms. When he squeezes, Bilbo lets out a breathless laugh. 

“Naughty old dwarf,” he giggles, swiping his hands through Thorin’s hair. He can see light scattering about him from the corners of his eyes and he turns his head to find fireflies clinging to the silvery darkness of his own curls. Bilbo’s eyes are warm and fond when he meets them in surprise, “You were wearing a very dashing crown.” The hands in his hair pull and stroke and hold on tight. But he is distracted, watching words tumble forth from Bilbo’s mouth, eyes fastened on the plump bottom lip. And he can’t help himself; he needs to lean up and taste it. When he sucks on it, Bilbo squirms in his arms, breathless laughter hiding a moan. But Thorin knows him well enough by now to know what that means. 

He joins their hips with a neat little roll and it has the pleasant result of making them both sigh in pleasure. 

Then a curly head still surrounded by small flickering lights presses hard against his in a particularly dwarfish show of affection. 

“I like this crown on you, better than any other,” Bilbo whispers against his lips, breath hot and sweet. Thorin clutches him close, that great nameless emotion flaring like a firework and spilling over until he can barely breathe. 

“As do I, my love. As do I.”

They stay like that, long into the night, until the sky rumbles and flickers in the distance and the smell of rain clings to their clothes and skin. 

All the while, upon their mingled curls of silver and black and honey gold, sits matching crowns of fireflies. 

 

end

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably going to do more of these while I work on the Lily. Once that's done, I'll start the main story for this.
> 
> *Edit*- I changed a really embarrassing mistake. I said that this takes place on the anniversary of the Battle but that happened in the beginning of winter. And this takes place in the summer. Oops! But it's fixed now!!! Sorry about that!


End file.
